Just Your Average Day
by DamnI'mRandom
Summary: A triple murder and a reporter obsessed with John! Seems a lot of work. But it's just another regular day in the lives of our favourite Baker Street boys. Featuring Jealous!Sherlock and established Johnlock.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, obviously. Will never, either, obviously.

**Warning:** Slash. That means male/male making out/shagging (slight). If you don't like it, don't read it.

...

...

'Victim's name is Victoria Abernathy, twenty-seven, found here by a garbage collector doing rounds in his pick-up truck at five. By the looks of it, she was stabbed multiple times in the heart by a knife and she bled to death.'

'But?'

'But,' Greg Lestrade sighed for what seemed like the thousandth time that day, 'There's no sign of her blood on the pavement here. So…'

'She was killed somewhere else, and her body was left here by the killer's accomplice – probably someone he extracted a favour from. The killer, I mean.'

'He?'

'Yes, he, _obviously_. As always, Detective Inspector, you see but do not observe. You merely skim over the minor details but overlook the important ones.' Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes at this new display of stupidity. He turned sideways to glance at John with an expression that clearly said, _people these days are such idiots._

'So tell me.' Lestrade seemed resigned to his fate.

Deduction time. Sherlock crouched down to take a closer look at the body.

'The victim lived in Euston, very close to the station, there's a ticket from Euston to London Waterloo in the back pocket of her trousers from yesterday at eight-fifteen a.m., and where would you go at such an early hour? Work, obviously, and she doesn't seem the type who was in a very time-bound job which required her to be up at odd hours to catch flights, so she took this train regularly. Probably an HR manager or a secretary in a fancy office, which would've required her to dress formally, and she took great care with her make-up, see the precise line of her eye-liner? She's very meticulous with it and scrubs all the make-up off her face at night, going by the recurring scrub marks on her face, visible even with all the foundation. She didn't take it off last night, which means she must've had visitors in the evening and they must've left late at night. She lived in a flat, bachelorette, used to regular movie nights alone, her nails have been chewed to their beds from watching a horror movie the night before last.

'The angle of the stabs shows that the killer's left-handed, and the stabs weren't hesitant, so someone practiced enough to carry out the deed. They are also strong and deep, but the angle made it difficult to kill, which was why it took many stabs before the victim died. This clearly indicates that the killer is male. I'd say the weapon of choice was particularly sharp paper knife. Now, all you need to do is find out whether the apartment block the victim lived in had a security system like a guard or a CCTV camera whose footage we can look at.'

Deduction done with, Sherlock smirked and stared at Lestrade with a condescending look on his face.

At that moment, Donovan's phone rang and as she answered it and listened to the person on the other side, her face grew more and more troubled.

'Okay, okay. Yeah, we'll be there.' She hung up. 'Sir, there's been another one.'

'_Another?'_ Lestrade seemed aghast. He cursed. 'Where?'

'Just off Hannock Road. Similar stab patterns, same age.'

'You go on, we'll follow.' Donovan turned on her heel and sauntered off towards her BMW. 'Field day, Sherlock. Two on the same day, and you'd better solve them quick.'

'Oh, this is going to be so much fun!' Sherlock looked raving mad with glee. John gently tapped him on the shoulder.

'Yes, John?'

'Do remember that there's a person lying dead, Sherly.'

'Don't call me that.'

'Why not? You seem fine with it otherwise.'

'But not _in public!'_

'You're the one least concerned with "the public" usually.' John made quotation marks with his hands in the air.

'Shut up.'

They got into the cab Sherlock had just hailed and speeded towards their latest crime scene. There was a lull in conversation and/or bickering as John stared at the landscape they were going past, and Sherlock stared at John. Suddenly –

'We're being followed,' Sherlock declared, craning his neck to look into the cab's rear-view mirror.

'What makes you think that?'

'That van has been behind us for the past fifteen minutes.'

'So? They could be taking the same route.'

'Have you learned nothing in all your years with me? These things don't just "happen".'

'Okay, so what d'you propose we do?'

'Nothing, for the while. If I've assumed correctly, the passenger will get down with us at the crime scene but will try to be discreet, to no avail, because I've already spotted her, and we will ask her her purpose for being there. She will give some flimsy excuse and will try to worm as much information out of us as is possible for a person of her intellectual level and calibre. Which we will not be allowed to give, obviously, as she is a reporter for _The Sun_.'

John was dazed. 'Right, obviously,' he said weakly, hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice his complete lack of comprehension as to how he arrived at that conclusion.

Of course he did. 'The name of the newspaper is written on the van's side,' Sherlock said pointedly, hiding his amusement.

'Oh.'

...

...

They soon arrived at the crime scene (close to a garden this time – _the killer must be a lover of beauty_) and, sure enough, the van stopped right near their cab, and a young lady could be seen climbing out of its back door sneakily.

They neared an overflowing dumpster, which, going by the smell, hadn't been cleared in quite a while.

'Who is it this time?' Sherlock asked briskly, snapping on his surgical gloves.

'Veronica Albrook. Twenty-seven, same stab wounds, but…'

'There is, naturally, a but,' Sherlock announced dramatically. Lestrade looked annoyed.

'The victim's been dead two days, at least. She's quite pale, died fairly quickly of excessive blood loss. Neat job, this,' John concluded. 'The first one, Victoria Abernathy, died only several hours ago.'

'Any connection? Where did they work? Who were they friends with? Did they have any significant others? Did they know each other, by any chance? Find all this out, Lestrade, get one of your puppets to do it and text me the details. I think we're done here for the day.'

'Sherlock!' Lestrade was on the border line of angry now.

'Come along, John.'

'And he's the one saying I have puppets,' Lestrade muttered under his breath. He called out to John. 'Er, John? Could I have a word, please?'

John looked confused, but came closer, while Sherlock scoured the street looking for a taxi.

'Um, make it quick, please, I don't want him to…'

'Yeah, I understand. What I wanted to tell you was – I know.'

John flushed. 'What d'you mean?' he countered smoothly.

'Oh, c'mon, John – how big an idiot d'you take me for? I am a detective, after all. You and Sherlock – it was easy to guess.'

'Okay, but, you aren't going to tell anyone about this, or I'll tell Sherlock about you and his elder brother's little… _arrangement_.' John grinned smugly.

'Of course.' The smirk slipped off his face with remarkable speed. 'How long has it been going on?'

'A month and a half. It's all very new, so…'

'Yeah, you boys have fun at home. I – '

'Yes?' Sherlock was at John's side in an instant.

'… be careful, you two,' finished Lestrade lamely, and he went off to check on his team's progress.

Sherlock stared at Lestrade's retreating back curiously. 'You know, if he puts his mind to it, he's quite clever,' he mused.

'Yeah. No luck finding a cab, then?'

'No, we'll have to walk a bit until we find one. Let's hope there are few empty alleyways along the road. I'm in the mood for something… _dirty _right now.' He winked at John and John slapped him playfully on the arm.

There was a shuffling noise behind them as they reached the pavement's kerb, and someone bumped violently into John. He staggered.

'I'm _so_ sorry, are you alright?' a high-pitched voice asked. Papers were strewn all over, and a young woman bent to pick them up hurriedly.

'Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, thanks,' John muttered, righting himself.

'Watch where you're going!' Sherlock snapped at the girl.

'Sorry,' the woman mumbled again. Then she straightened and took a good, long look at the pair of them. They quickly let go of each other's hands before she could notice. Her eyes cleared.

Sherlock's radar beeped _danger!_

'That's her,' he muttered to John under his breath. 'The reporter.'

'I noticed,' John muttered back.

'Hey, aren't you Doctor John Watson? The one with the blog?' She was clearly excited at having landed them alone.

'Yes…' John said warily.

'_Oh my God, _I am _such_ a huge fan! The way you describe your adventures with Sherlock Holmes – I'm sure he can't _survive_ without you. It's brilliant!' she gushed.

'Erm, thanks, I guess?'

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. The woman jumped about a foot in the air.

'And you are?' she asked politely.

'Sherlock Holmes,' the detective replied coldly.

'Oh. Well, it's a pleasure to finally meet the two of you, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson. Did you just…' her voice dropped an octave, '… did you just leave a crime scene?'

'No, we were just taking a walk along this road and the body and a team of policemen just _happened _to pop out of nowhere!' Sherlock was losing his (already-low) patience now. 'Really, is that the best you people can come up with these days?'

'He means yes,' John explained.

'And could you just tell me some more about it? I find all this _terribly_ fascinating,' she whispered in a conspiring voice.

'No, he most certainly can _not_ give you any details about it. Good morning, Miss Devisham.'

'How did he…?'

'He does it to everyone,' John said shortly.

'And are the two of you in – '

'Well, you can tell your bosses at _The Sun_ that there is no story here, and now we really should be going.'

'How – but – '

'And stay away from us,' John added helpfully. 'Forever.'

'Let's go.' John tugged at Sherlock's arm, who was lunging forward, ready to give the reporter another piece of his mind.

'Are the two of you in a relationship?' The reporter was very intent on knowing this, and she almost seemed to be hoping for a shake towards the negative.

'Leaving!'

'Dr Watson – '

They left her standing there with a handful of scattered notes and an incident to think over.

...

...

The cab ride back home was silent. Sherlock was seething over the reporter incident, and John was mulling over Sherlock's behaviour. He'd acted strange, and he'd hardly ever seen _this_ side of him before, except maybe once or twice, but it hadn't really registered in his brain.

Maybe Sherlock was just being a good boyfriend and taking care of him… no. He'd damn near _attacked_ the reporter when she'd asked them 'the question'. Why had Sherlock acted like he had?

Well, whatever the case, he sure was glad that he'd saved him from the clutches of the reporter.

As soon as the cab stalled outside 221B, Baker Street, Sherlock pulled the cab door open and went up to the flat, leaving John to pay the taxi driver and to wonder what on earth was going on with his nutter boyfriend.

'Sherlock?' he called as soon as he entered he flat. He seemed to be nowhere in sight.

He opened the door to Sherlock's room and found the man sitting on the edge of the bed, frowning deeply.

'Sherlock,' he said cautiously. Sherlock didn't seem to have heard him. He sighed.

_It's like dealing with a child,_ one part of his mind complained.

_A child with magical lips, hands and cock,_ the other part reminded him instantly.

The first part agreed readily. He sighed again.

He went to the door to leave, but within a second, Sherlock had him pinned to the closed door, locked in a frenzied, heated, passionate kiss. Their tongues danced the dance of furious dragons, battling each other at first, then settling into a fast-paced rhythm. Sherlock then advanced to his neck and found John's tender spot. He bit it as John moaned deeply, leaving a fast-purpling mark.

When John finally pulled away, he was red-faced, panting, struggling to form coherent thought. It was like that every time they kissed like this.

When he turned back round to Sherlock, he found that Sherlock had gone back to his spot on the bed, hands in prayer position, staring ahead at the framed periodic table.

He smiled and touched his neck where a bruise had begun to form. The mark clearly meant 'mine', and John had figured out exactly what the matter with Sherlock was.

...

...

A good night's rest did them both good (Sherlock slept eight hours, to John's evident surprise), and Sherlock chuckled a little when he saw the bruise on John's neck, and John laughed along.

'It seems I have encountered a… problem,' Sherlock began. 'I… don't exactly know what it is, but – '

'I know exactly what it is.' John smiled secretively.

'Tell me,' Sherlock commanded.

'Figure it out. I know how much you like puzzles. Count this as one of your experiments.'

'I accept,' Sherlock said, surprising them both.

'Let's see… I don't have to call in work today, and Lestrade's just texted me… whoa, there's been a _third_ murder, Sherlock, and exactly like the first two.'

'We have a serial killer, _excellent._'

'Sherlock,' John reminded him.

'Oh yes, people are dead, respect, sanctity, blah blah blah. I get it.'

'Well, what're we waiting for, then?'

...

...

The whole setup was exactly the same as Victoria Abernathy and Veronica Albrook, and the victim's name was Violet Addams. Stab wounds, garbage dumpster, twenty-seven, quite a pretty face, but disfigured with shock and disgust.

'She was found by the people living in the flat on the ground floor – said they could smell something terrible coming from their dumpster.'

'This body's old, about a few weeks. I'm surprised the residents didn't notice earlier,' John said, shying away from the disgusting odour.

'Who is it, then?' Lestrade asked Sherlock, who had a curious look on his face.

Sherlock didn't respond.

'Oh yeah, of course, I'll leave you to think it over, yeah,' Lestrade backtracked. He was quite used to getting immediate answers from the detective.

'What do you have on the garbage collector?' Sherlock asked suddenly.

'Him? What d'you want with _him_?' Anderson snorted derisively.

Sherlock gave him an exasperated look rather than snapping at him, and looked at Lestrade expectantly.

'Oh, er, okay. Name's Richard Algernon, thirty-seven, widower, lives in Southall.'

'Any children?'

'Um, _no_. His wife was pretty young when she died… only twenty-seven. Her name was Vinette Algernon, and she died a few years into their marriage of a premature heart condition. He was heartbroken and went into clinical depression soon after. He was given the all-clear by his psychiatrist a few years ago.'

'Okay, did the victims – _oh_. _Oh!_' Sherlock's expression cleared.

'What? What?' Lestrade looked up from his dossier, alert.

'It's him.'

'It's who?'

'The collector, the garbage collector – what's his name? Richard Algernon.'

'But that _can't_ be, he reported the first murder!'

'Clever ruse, his job as a garbage collector allowed him to hide her body without suspicion. And since he had to clear that dumpster anyway, he figured reporting the murder wouldn't do him any harm.'

'But why'd he kill them?'

'God, don't you people use your brains? It's so _glaringly_ simple, even a three-year-old could solve this. Notice the initials of Algernon's wife's name. V and A. What were victims' names? Victoria Abernathy. Veronica Albrook. Violet Addams. Do you see now?'

'V and A,' John said, realisation dawning.

'_Yes!_ And the age – his wife was twenty-seven when she died. All three victims were twenty-seven. The same age as his wife when she died suddenly. I can't believe it took so long to figure out.'

'So, what does that mean?'

'Lestrade. You said he lives in Southall. He's a garbage collector, so he must have a very modest house at best, and how will he own a computer or laptop with his meagre pay? So he uses local internet cafes. Check the history of the computers in the nearest café and you'll find that there have been quite a few hits on popular online dating sites within the last few months. The names of the three victims will flash out. He obviously had a fetish for women with the initials V.A., it was one of the search categories.

'The man went on a date with the three victims separately over the course of the last few months, and all three rejected him. Obviously. He felt like he'd disappointed them in some way, same as he'd felt when his wife died of heart failure. Check his psychiatrist's notes.'

'But how did you – '

'Speed-reading, it's one of the many qualities I possess.'

'Along with arrogance,' John said under his breath.

Sherlock's sharp ears caught it and he smirked.

'So he feels like he's disappointed them, like he did his wife, and this reawakens old feelings. He's angry at them for doing that. The anger boils up, filling him with resentment until he can't take it anymore. He goes to their house at night under the pretext of asking them what went wrong. They stutter, apologise, the old 'it's not you, it's me' routine. He takes the paper knife, the only real thing of value in his house, and stabs them repeatedly. They bleed to death on their respective rugs.'

'But hang on. When we went, the rugs were fine, no blood stain on them!' Anderson exclaimed.

'Anderson, do you really think that a murderer would just _leave_ a blood-stained rug belonging to the victim like that? He took them to the dry-cleaners and got the blood siphoned off. You'll find the receipts in his house when you go to arrest him.'

'Now, are you _sure_ about this?' Lestrade asked worriedly.

'You know me, Lestrade.'

The Detective Inspector sighed. 'Alright folks, let's wrap 'em up!'

John felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to find the –

'Hello again, Dr Watson.'

Miss Devisham, reporter for _The Sun_, was back.

...

...

'That's it, I'm telling Mycroft,' Sherlock fumed as he pulled his phone out to call Mycroft.

'What're you _doing_ here? You're getting no information from us.' John was perplexed. He'd thought that they'd told her in no uncertain terms to stay away from them.

'We reporters are particularly persistent when searching for a scoop. And especially one concerning such a handsome, _charming_ man.' She batted her eyelashes at John. The object of her affections recoiled and took a few steps back. She shuffled closer and closer and John leaned back with each step. He looked repulsed.

Sherlock was observing all that was going on, and it did nothing to calm his rage. He barked a few quick words to Mycroft over the phone and, once he'd hung up, stomped over to John and Miss Devisham. He grabbed John's arm, turned him towards himself and kissed him _hard_ on the lips, the same kind as the day before.

John lost himself as soon as he felt Sherlock's lips on his and clung onto Sherlock tighter, pulling him impossibly close with each breath. The reporter stood open-mouthed, staring at the duo. It was fascinating to watch, but she felt greatly disappointed.

She cleared her throat, and they broke apart breathlessly.

'You are _mine, _John Watson. Never forget that,' Sherlock gasped.

'Yessir,' John said weakly.

'Erm, I'll just…' the reporter squeaked timidly. She fled on shaky legs to the van she'd arrived in.

John stared at her for a moment, then laughed uproariously and Sherlock joined in.

'We're giggling at a crime scene again,' John said after his fit had subsided.

'Yes, so?'

'It's just – nothing,' as he started to chuckle once more.

'C'mon, let's go back home, and I'll tell you what I concluded from my experiment.'

'It's done already?'

'Yep,' Sherlock said, popping the 'p'.

'I can't wait to find out.'

...

...

'I found that – unf – jealousy gives you a great sex drive.'

'Certainly seems so.' A lot of scrabbling noises and a loud _thud_ as the Yellow Pages hit the ground.

'I wanted to kill that reporter, you know.'

'I do.'

'The way she was looking at you – ' A creak and a _rip_ of cloth as John's shirt tore.

'Dammit, Sherlock, that was one of my best shirts!'

'– it made my blood boil. I'll get Mycroft to buy you a new one.' A lot of moaning as their members grinded against each other's.

'What now?'

'I need you to make it up to me. I've been feeling strange lately.'

'I thought you'd never ask.'

…

Four hours and a lot of shagging later, John found the coherency to ask Sherlock about something that had been playing on his mind.

'Just out of curiosity, what did you call Mycroft for?'

Sherlock smiled evilly and said casually,

'Well, let's just say that Miss Devisham , our friendly reporter, will get a nasty surprise when she reaches home and finds two officers waiting for her with a warrant.'

'Uh-huh. And what'll be written on that piece of paper?'

'A restraining order.'

x—x


End file.
